


A fool's end

by WendigoBaby



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Fallen Angels, Internalized Homophobia, Loose format, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 02:28:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10066352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendigoBaby/pseuds/WendigoBaby
Summary: Old folk tales say that angels exist.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is, honestly. It just... struck me and I wrote it down between lectures. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

When people speak of heaven, their words are hollow rings of a holy bell. 

Divine, they say; pure, they sing; 

_hósanna_ and amen and praise the lord.

 

Angels are rose-skinned shepherds with kind eyes and a halo of sunlight.

God loves, God forgives, God forgets. 

**He does not.**

 

You have learned it’s nothing, but a lie finely woven with gold thread. You have wings of molten fury and your eyes are ablaze with the flames of the damned. 

 

Angels cry until they bleed – they learn how to kill.

 

Raven-black, you fling yourself across the earth, starving and wild and far from absolution of your sins. 

You, who stole from dreams and touched boys in ways you don’t want your mother to know. 

 

You scream your guilt at the void; it stays silent.

 

Celestial beings are empty bones and prayer-filled lungs and this pain is not hellfire, it is poacher’s pride and lead that sits heavy in your rotten heart. 

You fall like a comet does, quick and elegant and burning alive until you hit hard soil.

You think, _it is over._

 

You wait for the moment you fall apart into stardust and ash when he comes, a dust-haired prophet with runes carved into his skin, barefooted and pure.

With a bloody mouth and shaking hands you reach for him like you reach for light, _a last supper, a death wish._

 

He is terrified and in love. 

 

You see he understands how it is to have a soul bigger than your body, he knows what it means to be a saint and turn the other cheek to the ones that wrong you.

There are constellations among the purple-pink sunrise sky along the slope of his cheekbone, when he leans over your trembling body. 

 

His voice is rain during summer, soothing and soft and it lets you breathe again, even though your body aches. 

It is a voice you might have loved when your world was playful war songs, ribs beneath rough fingertips and sharp-toothed smiles fit for a prince. 

You think you might’ve found a path to glory if you were given a chance.

 

Over time, you realize you’ve met your own God. 

He licks your wounds clean and sleeps by your side during the nights, because he is homeless, a restless soul of a vagabond, deprived of affection. 

He hears your voice and it makes his ears bleed ruby, but he smiles at you and you almost smile back, but you’ve forgotten how to _be._

 

He makes you forget that you’re a weapon meant for harm, sharp-edged and steel-cold, a vicious warrior, a hurricane storm, a wildfire spreading like disease. 

He feeds you fresh fruit dripping with juice and it tastes like your childhood.

 

He is told that birds with broken wings never fly, but he’s stubborn.

 

Over time, you heal. 

Because loving this boy is a salve for your scars and the bruised and cracked parts of you that never recovered enough. 

He becomes your golden calf and when you kneel, blasphemous and proud, it is before him. 

In turn, he kisses your lips even though it means his dreams will fill with death and decay.

 

You have found paradise. 

The world ends and begins in his arms and you don’t say ‘father I have sinned’ anymore, because it is not dirty to love. 

You walk through gardens palm to palm and dance by the edge of the sea and kiss buried in each other. 

 

You tear out your heart and put it in his hands, he stays gentle. He kisses your knuckles one by one and his laughter is honey-sweet. 

 

When you molt, he gathers your feathers and burns them on a pyre, dressed like a pagan in an ancient rite, for he is a forest turned inside out, roots for guts and leaves for thoughts and _he is wise._

 

North wind picks up when the time for you comes. 

The horizon burns orange and yellow like a sunset bleeding in clean water, voices call for you _**come, come, we’re hungry.** _

 

When you leave, you take him with you, you do not leave your redemption behind.

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all kind of feedback is greatly appreciated <3
> 
> You can find me on tumblr as 'maghnvsbane'.


End file.
